Wildflowers
by NuttyThenutjob
Summary: John H. Watson is your average student. Then on one evening walk, he met a strange 'boy'. Or rather, a girl crossdressing as a boy. With the name of Sherlock Holmes. / Fem!Sherlock, Fem!Mycroft, and Fem!Moriarty. 1800s highschool AU. Johnlock. Mystrade. MorMor / Teen!Lock / No one is anyone's enemy, the girls are FTM trans
1. Life of John Watson

London. A great city, a beautiful place.

And so warped.

No one knew exactly how London had fallen into tangled webs of hierarchy. A cruel system amongst the living. Whence your social status mattered.

If you are a Noble, you could do anything you want. Anything, really. You have the highest political position, the wealth, the society. London falls into The Nobles hands, where they played the rest of Londoner like puppets. Toys, nothing worth more.

Then, there is The Commoner.

The Commoner society is also divided into two, The Middle Class and The Poor.

In Middle Class, you could still afford a roof. Some blankets and warm clothes, and even food. Yet, you have to work really hard to earn those, for life isn't easy. And you have to compete with others to afford things.

But then, the same can't be said for The Poor.

They live in the sides of the streets. Wearing thin clothes and seldom eat. Day by day, every hour, a Poor dies. Whether from pneumonia, other sicknesses, malnourished, or even..

Murdered.

Their lives are nearly worthless to the Nobles, it seems.

And then,

there is John H. Watson.

John isn't something you can say, memorable.

He is a simple guy. A Commoner. Yet with the love of study, hard-working, and bit of luck, he managed to enroll in one of London's most prestigious academy.

Linston Boys Academy.

As a scholarship student, John depended so much of his studies for his living.

If he got anything below B, he would need to afford his dorm himself. Broke any rules, and he'll beed to pay for his education fees. Any troubles against teachers and students, and he's out.

It seems like the Academy are just looking for more reputation, by giving out 'scholarships' they'll look kinder, and much more trustable that it truly is. And then, kick out the said scholarship students with prissy reasons.

It is by great chance John managed to went through it all. A few more months and he would graduate, along with his other fellow scholarship students whom also managed to get through.

And yet, that doesn't mean John had it easy. No.

He had to balance his studies, his broken family, his drunken sister, and not to mention..

Bullies.

Being a Commoner, he didn't really expect a warm greeting in a place full of Nobles. So he's not really surprised when the verbal abuse starts, and then shoving, and then hitting.

His roommate, Greg Lestrade, urged him to fight back, yet John only smiled and shook his head.

No.

He would not risk being kicked out of the Academy.

And so he endures it. Everyday. Every given moment.

He was really grateful when these days came.

Weekends.

The Nobles went to their respective homes, probably feasting or partying, with their equally rich friends and/or attending high class society gatherings. Leaving the Academy nearly deserted. Save for few teachers.

And that's when John and his fellow scholarship students thrive.

They are allowed to leave school grounds at weekends, so John took those rare moments for evening strolls, to get fresh air and clean his mind.

With his walking cane in one hand, he walked down the streets, giving out greetings at few passerbies. Stopping at given times at market stalls to buy an apple or two.

Today however, John had chosen to explore the opposite streets. He founded a park then, which made the corner of his lips curled up.

Clusters of small flower gardens scattered about the park. They are still green, yet John knew once spring came, the flowers would bloom and turn the park into a harmonious colourful place.

Pigeons flew pass by him as children ran around the park. Seeming to play tag as the adults sat on nearby benches, reading newspapers or simply watching the children.

It was really lively.

John then sat down on a nearby bench, his cane leaning on his knees.

He sighed in content and watched the children. Screaming, running, without a care in the world. Laughing.

How he wished he could feel the sane joy.

John didn't know what to feel when the doctor told him and his mother that he would limp on his legs for the rest of his lives. It was just a fever at the beginning. A small simple fever.

The doctor diagnosed that he had overworked himself to the point of exhaustion, thus straining his muscles too much. He said John couldn't return back to his normal state, not untill he went over a therapy, one that of course, his family could not afford.

That night his father was more than furious. He drank himself into stupor and slapped his mother. His sister Harry,-short for Harriet-, was not even helping by trashtalking him, saying now that he is useless.

John blinked back tears threathening to spill from his eyes.

Deep down he felt utterly exhausted. His sister's words rang through his ears, driving him mad.

'You are a Commoner. Now that you are limp, what use of you to this place? Nothing. You are nothing John, nothing but a limp twat.'

John sighed and gripped his cane tightly. Inwardly screaming at his mind to shut up.

He hated it.

He then stood up, breathing in a large amount of air as he stretched. The sun begun setting in the horizon, leaving bright orange and purple streaks at the sky.

So much for clearing his mind.

He headed to his dorm then. His walking cane clicking against the stone pavement as he walked.

Before he could even reach the Academy grounds however, pair of hands snaked onto his coat and yanked him towards an alley.

John staggered before falling to the ground with a loud thump. Wincing as he searched around for his cane, to find none.

"Well what do we have 'ere."

John looked up and groaned.

Of course, who else would it be. The very people he'd hoped to avoid in weekends so badly.

Channing and his friends.

John's bullies.

\--*TBC*--

Errrmmm... my muse came in, haha *sweatdrops*

Idk I just really REALLY love 1800s-1900s era London and wanted to write a story about it. So naturally, as I tweaked around, Sherlock came in.

And dang, now it's getting hard to make the damned muse leave.

So uh yeah, enjoy. Settle down and grab your seats 'cus Sherlock's coming up in da NEXT CHAP.

See ya potatoes.


	2. 'He' is Called Sherlock

Channing.

Channing Manrell is one of the Academy's greatest donator. The golden boy, the purest of all Nobles in school. The firstborn child, one who'll lead his family's company once he grew up. With the high status in the political state.

And also, the very same bully John has to suffer with everyday.

"What do we have here? The limping trash."

"What do you want, Channing?" John grumbled as he tries to stood up, only to be pushed back down by a buff arm.

"Look at you, you are so pathetic." The blond sneered, spitting on the ground beside John as he dusted his hands, as if he'd just cleaned a very dirty attic as his goons laughed behind him.

"Let's just settle this peacefully, alright?"

Channing barked a laugh.

"You wished, trash."

How original.

"Fine Channing, you won. What is it?" John sighed.

"You to die."

"How about no? You see, I have studies to think of, so I don't really fancy the idea of comitting suicide when it's just few months to graduate."

A fist flung to his cheek and John flew to a wall, tears prickling in his eyes as his left cheek stung so badly. He was sure that his lower lip is splitted.

"Don't talk back to me, trash."

"I don't. I was just stating the facts-"

A hand held the collar of his shirt and forced him to stood up, choking when his feet could no longer feel the ground.

"You are disgusting. Even hearing your name sickens me."

John grasped the large wrist holding him as he struggled to get free.

"You don't deserve to live you piece of trash. Commoners aren't even supposed to live in the first place. You are but a mistake."

"Wow. I wonder how many cells it takes to create that heartwarming speech." Surprisingly it wasn't John who said those words,-though he'll be happy to-, it was from another person.

All of them turned around to see a boy leaning against the mouth of the alleyway. He's wearing a coat and a blue scarf, for the evening air had gone chilly. A woolen cap sat ontop of his somewhat-unruly dark hair, with his hands crossed over his chest.

"Who are you?" Channing growled.

The boy shrugs.

"Just a random passerby."

"A Commoner then?" Channing grinned as he dropped John, who wheezed for air as the blond leveled up on the boy, who didn't even look shaken.

"Listen here, trash. You saw noth-"

It all happened fast.

The boy moved with the speed of lightning, sending a clean uppercut at Channing's jaw, which made him crumpled to the ground unconscious. Leaving John and Channing's goons gaping.

"Close your mouth boys, or you'll attract flies."

One of Channing's henchmen growled and lunged at the boy. Who in turn, sidestepped him and sent a punch to his head.

"Get him!"

They lunged at him. Seven against one is really isn't fair. Atleast that's what John thought.

Untill he sees the boy fight.

He didn't move with the grace of a swan, nor did he bother to do complicated moves like the ones John saw in battle rings. No.

He fights dirty.

He moves with the speed of lightning and cunning precision. He wove in and out through the dozen punches thrown at him, and didn't even hesitates to kick them in the jewels.

There is no art of gracefullness in his fightings whatsoever. It's brutal and messy.

And most effective.

He took them down. All seven of them, in twelve seconds flat.

"This is not over trash!" One of them yelled as they scurried away, running and even some are crying for their mothers.

John can't help but gape.

"T-thank you for your help. Thank you so much, I wouldn't've-" John stuttered as he leaned on the brick wall to stand, his hand had now found his cane.

The boy didn't answer him. Instead, he sent John a scrutinizing gaze, one that makes John suddenly felt self-conscious. The boy's eyes are sharp, piercing through his masks like blades.

It made John uncomfortable.

"You know, you don't really need your cane, right?"

John paused, his right hand fingered his newly found cane nervously.

"Wha-what do you mean? The doc-"

"Your doctor is clearly a bloody stupid man. He obviously lied to you so you would pay him more for therapies, which you don't need at all." The boy said as he approached John, looking at him closely.

John stood frozen. He did not know how to respond to that. So instead, he offered a hand, straining a smile albeit pain shooting flares from his leg.

"I'm John. John Watson."

The boy eyed his hand but didn't took it. So John retreated his palm back when the boy spoke,

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock." John nodded, tasting the foreign name rolling off his tongue. It's a strange peculiar name, one that John never heard before.

But it does sound lovely. Unique and different.

"No last name?" John asked.

The boy seemed to ponder for a moment, shrugging then answering,

"Holmes."

John felt off-putted. He had hear the name, previously. Yet he can't remember when. Nor where if that matters.

"So.. about my doctor.."

"Ah yes," The boy shoved his hands into his coat's pockets, glancing at John.

"You're not actually injured. You are only suffering from psychogenic. Caused by the strain and stress you keep piling up. That's just show how hellish your life is for suffering that stress, seems like you have a broken home. Your father and brother,-whom recently was in a fight with his wife-, are drinking out of despair, and your mother isn't able to support the whole family.."

"Ho-how do you know my family is-..?" John trailed off, shock visible on his face.

The boy shrugged, nonchalantly.

"You're wearing Linston Boys Academy uniform. That's a quite prestigious school here in London. Yet you are absent of the typical arrogance of a Noble, which means you are a scholarship student, a Commoner,"

John blinked, unsure on what to take his words as.

"In Linston, every weekends, you are allowed to return and stay at your respective houses. Am I correct?"

"Yes."

"And yet here you are, wandering in the streets. Which left it to three reasons. One, your house is nearby. Which was crossed out since you are clearly heading for the school grounds, and that you are wearing a uniform.

"Two, you don't have a house. Quite a possibility but no. Your clothes are clearly too large for you, yet it was sewn into your size rather carefully. It's probably your mother's work and since that brand of sewing thread is quite expensive, so she must've used her best kit for you. Only mothers would do that far to her son. So my take is, if she can buy that thread, you clearly still can afford to live under a roof.

"And that leaves three, you dislike your family. You like your mother and so did she, as I had explain beforehand. Yet you heavily dislike your father and brother, maybe even hate."

"H-how do you know that?"

"Your psychogenic. I don't think Linston school can cause that much stress,-Nobles wouldn't want their children getting too much homeworks and assignments, the Drama Queens they are-, even with bullies. Psychogenic is caused by something deep that scarred your deep mind and mental. So it must've been in the family. Not your mother, so father it is. Your walking cane is slightly bent, and not caused by that goon there by throwing it. It was bent from hitting. Seeing you, and your state, I doubted you'll use it for hitting. You have high morals."

"Err.. thanks..?" John said, rather confused as Sherlock continues,

"Your mother won't do it, she care for you afterall, she wouldn't want her son's walking cane got bent. So again, your father. If that cane was used to hit furnitures, it would've has scratches, which it doesn't. Meaning, he used it to hit something not hard, over and over so that it got bent. And that leaves you, my dear Watson. He abused you."

Hearing it, coming from another person, made John's blood ran cold. It was like there is nothing between him and Sherlock, he was exposed.

Sherlock then offered him a handkerchief. John, dumbstruck, took it. He examined it before realising,

"This is mine."

"You dropped it on the pavement few blocks away. I was going to return it to you when I also caught those goons."

John nodded.

"So that's why you helped me."

"Not really. I'm just generally disgusted by those who used their bloodlines to proove they are more.. high. Royal. It sickens me." Sherlock spat those words with so much venom it made John thought of how much the boy hates the Nobles.

"So either way, I would always kick their bloody arses."

John stiffled a laugh. Which made Sherlock looked at him in confusion.

"What?"

"Nevermind me. Do continue."

"Continue? Oh right. Your handkerchief belonged to your brother, Harry. It was from his wife isn't it? There is a message embroidred on the top right corner. 'From Clara to Harry. xxx.' Triple Xs. A friend? No, too much kisses. A wife it is. But if she's his lover, he wouldn't have given it to you, would he? So that means he's in a fight. Your brother is okay with you, but he's drinking. The edge of the handkerchief is stained with brandy. A strong one at that.

"And judging from your face, you didn't even realise that handkerchief has that embroidry, nor of the brandy stain." Sherlock finishes, raising an eyebrow at John's wide-eyed-open-mouthed expression. He's gaping like a goldfish.

Untill John snaps and his eyes practically filled with stars, awing at Sherlock who looked.. disturbed.

"That's a bloody awesome deduction! How'd you do that? That's just.. wow!"

Sherlock blinked at the unexpected outcome. His lips slowly curled up into a small smile.

"Heh. Well that's unexpected. Usually people would tell me something else when I did that."

"What would they say?"

"'Piss off'." Sherlock shrugs, adjusting his woolen cap sitting ontop of his nest of curly dark hair.

"Well then. Now that my job here is done, I should take my leave." Sherlock said, giving an overexagerrated bow as he turned on his heels and left. His shoes thumping softly against the stone pavement.

"You are an interesting man, John. I do hope we meet again someday."

"Sherlock!" John called before the taller boy are three steps out from the alleyway, hurrying over to catch him.

Sherlock turned at raised an eyebrow at John's haste. His hands inside his pockets.

"What is it John?"

John raised one hand to tell him to wait as he panted, and then straightening up,

"Harry is short for Harriet."

The change in Sherlock's face is very much amusing. His nose scrunched up, and his eyes narrowed with great irritation and annoyance.

"A woman."

"I have to go now. The school's gates are closing in few more minutes." John bid his goodbye and left, heading for the tall and grand building.

Before he entered the school's frontyard, however, he heard a voice shouting that unmistakeably belonged to Sherlock,

"A woman!"

John cracked up laughing.

\--*TBC*--

Heyooooo potatoes! How's that? I hope you guys like Sher's dramatic entrance, talk about Drama King right? *flips hair*

Anyways, do you notice Sherlock's fighting skills? I haven't particularly scanned through Sherlock's fighting skills in the BBC, but I'm thinking that Sherlock fight dirty is more suited to him. I mean, yeah he's elegant and all that jazz, but let's be realistic. If he fights in the streets like that, he'll be dead in thirty seconds flat. So fighting dirty or die. That simple.

And yes, I said that Sherlock's a girl in this fic but not yet. We're following John first in here, and John hasn't know that Sherlock's a girl. Yet. Don't worry, all will be reavealed later on.

I really do love writing deductions. I'm having so much fun with all the deducting ideas I have *squeals* I can't wait to show you guys all of it!

That's all and thank you potatoes!


	3. A Study in Bullies

It's been few weeks since John's ecounter with Sherlock.

And two months into finals.

Being a good-naturedly 'goody-two-shoes', John spent almost all of his days locked in his dorm working on essays and questionaires, almost driving his roommate mad.

"Are you bloody insane John? You can't lock yourself up like this!"

"I don't. Infact, I am studying for the big exams you see."

"That's in two months, Watson! Two bloody months! Get some fresh air will you?" Greg cried out in frustation, nearly tearing the pillow he's holding into halves.

John shrugged, his gaze not leaving the papers pinned beneath his elbow.

"I like to be prepared."

"You're going to be a bloody hermit, John."

John hummed calmly, not really paying attention to his roommate.

"Lestrade, if you wanted to leave for another date, I won't mind it. I don't need you to babysit me."

"Well I sure as hell won't leave you here." Greg said, rolling his eyes.

"I can take care of myself perfectly well, Lestrade."

"Yeah like the last time you bloody skipped two meals course."

"It's not like I'm going to die over that." John said, groaning as he pinched the gap between his forehead.

It's bad enough to struggle memorizing the latin names for every plants and animals, but to also listen to Greg's rants? Infuriating.

"Any minute and that book would've torn into halves."

John's breath hitched as he snapped his head up. Looking towards the window and there he is..

Sherlock. Sitting on the edge of the window.

Out of the corner of his eyes, John could see Greg was also in shock as he reached for his cricket batter.

"Who are you? How did you get in here?"

"One question at a time, Lestrade." The boy said nonchalantly, swooping into their room as if it was nothing.

"How in the bloody hell did you get my name?!" Lestrade seethed, his voice dripping with frustation, one that John's familiar with.

Sherlock gave him an increduled yet also blank look.

"Written on your batter like a bloody pamphlet. And I already know that he," He glanced at John. "Is John. S'pposed you are G. Lestrade. No?"

Greg let out mutters and few well choosen cuss words as he set the batter down. Looking at John expectantly.

"You know 'im?"

"Yes. This is Sherlock Holmes, he helped me few.. weeks ago." John said as he settled his textbook back into his drawers. Tidying up his messed up table.

"Speaking of, why are you here Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged.

"I'm bored." He said nonchalantly.

"Wait wait. You're telling me you break into London's most prestigious school and into our room just because you're bored?" Greg said with unconcealed surprise.

"Yes."

John felt a bit upset. And here he thought Sherlock came because he wanted to see him.

Not that it's important. Greg did has a point, a Noble won't befriends with a Commoner without a reason.

"But I do wanted to see John. Checking out his condition after being battered up against Channing."

It was when John's eyes caught Sherlock's. The latter's face was still void of any emotions, yet his usually empty eyes are tinged with,-dare he to say-, genuine concern.

"Against- who?!"

John winced at Greg's loud voice, the cricket prodigy was now glaring at him with accusing eyes. One that speaks 'Tell-me-who-hurts-you-and-I'll-punch-them-in-the-face'.

Typical Greg.

"It doesn't matter." John said at the ame time Sherlock spoke,

"Channing. Do put yourself at ease Lestrade, you looked like you are going to hit someone."

"I am." Greg growled, stomping off to their door which made John quickly inserted himself in his way.

"Move John."

"Greg, please. You didn't think this clearly-"

"Sure as bloody hell I am! I'm not letting some guy just bullies you whenever he wanted just because he's a Noble." With that, Greg shoved John out from his way.

John watched his friend left with pure horror and quickly scrambled off. Grabbing his coat, even forgetting the fact that Sherlock is in the room.

"Greg!" John shouted at his fuming friend, running to keep up with the cricketeer's sprint.

"Greg stop! Please! Greg!"

"Channing!" Greg hollered, his loud voice echoing the halls as few student peeked out from their rooms, wandering what's happening.

John was nearly caught up with him when the devil himself showed up. Putting John in a stuttering halt.

"Trash. What do you want." Channing snarked, his goons laughing behind him as he sneered at Greg. Who, despite being shorter good few inches and smaller than Channing's belly pot, stood tall and glaring.

Before Greg could continue however, a voice rang out. One that sends shiver through John's spine.

"What is going on?!"

The Headmaster.

John paled. Greg and he are done for good by now. The Headmaster was very close to Channing's family, and he was not fond of scholarship students, either.

They are going to be kicked out.

John knew of it when he sees Channing whispering to the Headmaster's ears. They both sneered and cackled, as John struggled to held back Lestrade.

He didn't want to get into deeper trouble.

Greg and him then shared a look. Greg looked devastated and frustated, he wanted to stand up for the both of them, yet doing so would make the matter's worse.

They are Commoners afterall.

"You two return to your homes. You are no longer accepted in this school." The Headmaster said.

Greg snapped.

"That is not fair!-"

"Life is never fair."

"But he-"

"Did you not hear what I said?!" The Headmaster yelled, gaining attention from all of the students surrounding them.

Greg gritted his teeth. Both of the scholarship students are angry- no, furious.

Is it that easy to lose all their hardwork, all their dreams?

But the Headmaster's word is final. And so with heavy hearts, the both of them turned to return to their room. Not after John squeezed Greg's shoulder in forgiveness as the latter glared at Channing. Whom snickering and sticking out his tongue.

"I ordered them to stay in this school."

John froze. He turned around to find himself staring at the back of Sherlock. The taller boy was standing firmly with his gaze casted at the flabbergasted Headmaster.

The Headmaster stuttered,

"Wha-what? Who-"

"I ordered them to stay in this school and continue their studies peacefully. Also without any bothers." Sherlock continued. His tone was cold.

"Hah! Under what authority are you commanding me? I am the Headmaster!"

By now John was staring at Sherlock nervously. Yet the boy stood still. And slightly as Sherlock glanced back at John, he thought he saw Sherlock winking at him.

"You are just a Commoner!"

"Yeah trash!" Channing joined in. Cackling.

" 'Under what authority', you asked?" Sherlock said. A grin formed on his face.

"Y-yea! You can't just tell us, Nobles, what to do!" The Headmaster said, though he looked nervous and sweating.

"Then how about this," Sherlock then took out an amulet from his coat, and he dangled it infront of him so that everyone can see.

John gasped.

Beside him, Greg took a sharp breath.

The Headmaster paled.

Channing gaped.

Whispers covered the halls.

Because what Sherlock is holding, is a round cooper amulet, of a logo John often saw.

A logo of the Holmes residence.

A Noble family.

And the second hand of the Queen.

"Under my authority." Sherlock whispered, grinning.

\--*TBC*--

Aaaaaaaannddd here we go! Whoo. Now John knows that Sherlock is a Noble. That and it means perhaps later he would know our lil's Sherlock's dirty little secret...(ahemhesagirlahem).

Nyehehehe.


End file.
